Target Practice
by JaneAire
Summary: Marguerite and Roxton end up Target Practice after a long day hiking! My first attempt at Lost World FanFictdom! Hope you Like!


"Come now, and wake up Marguerite" softly insisted the rugged hunter. Marguerite simply groaned from her spot next to the roaring fire while she sat up, refusing to allow the hunter to take two shifts on watch. They were on a small hunting trip heading to the base of the valley not to far from their tree house companions who were searching in the other direction. Malone has insisted that he and Veronica escort Challenger in finding a new herb from his Summerlee collection. When Summerlee had disappeared, Challenger had begun cataloging rare specimens in his substantial volumes, in order to carry on his work. His red hair and slightly greyer beard illuminated his ecstatic face upon hearing a retelling of a trampled plant Marguerite had encountered on one of her aquatic outings. The disgruntled heiress had deceptively left that tidbit to the end of her story, knowing the delight it would invoke for her housemates. She secretly rejoiced when she had found the shrub and casually entered it into conversations following a slightly sub-par meal of her own cooking, as a subtle apology for her lack in cooking skills. The only one the wiser was a certain perceptive hunter who had a twinkle of knowledge in his eye while looking at his lovely companion, the following day.

Marguerite paced from tree to tree, surrounding the campsite, rifle at the ready. Her riding jodhpurs replaced her usual khaki skirt in an attempt to keep the jungle's bugs at bay. Her long dark mane was swept up neatly in a simple braid with a few tendrils that marked another rugged day. Her dark eyes surveyed her surroundings with deadly accuracy. Her pace was executed with military precision, his rifle, a reminder of the task she had before her. Her small hand fit perfectly into the larger grove worn down by her masculine counterpart. Silently she retained guard, denying her mind the sleep she so desperately craved. When camping alone, they absently divided the shifts in three parts. Without words, Marguerite knew Roxton would not allow her to take the first shift. He would assume the more dangerous hours, dawn and dusk. Allowing her to play watch guard during the safest of times, while he half-slept never fully letting her out of his conscience. They had this undeniable bond between them, each knew the other subconsciously, to Marguerite, it was another language she had mastered, but to Roxton it was instinct. He knew her, and that was it.

Once she had circled their compound finding it safe, or as safe as a South American plateau could be, she picked a large smooth tree and leaned against it. Sheer force of will would not allow her to belay her duties, and to keep her mind occupied she began to translate sentences in multiple language. It was a game she knew well, from her days as an interpreter and better as a child. As dark as her past had been, this game, her game had kept her in the light. This night, she picked a sentence not from her own vocabulary but from her protectors. She translated "Come now, and wake up Marguerite" from English, to Spanish to Greek, and as her tongue traveled the world, the same husky inquiry never lost its undertones of care.

Marguerite knew Roxton would rest easier, hearing her, insuring her safety and relative proximity to him. She watched at a big grin etched across his face showing slightly underneath his brimmed hat. His hands unfolded and refolded with a small space left for her between them, his code for showing loneliness. Her only response was a scoff, knowing that too was a secret between them. To the outside world, the remained detached, sarcastic responses and rough treatment were how they managed to keep most of their sorted relationship secret. As of late it was getting harder to remain far from each other, their respective ache for closeness had begun to show.

With her mind set on her task once more, she began another trip around the perimeter.

After the shifts had changed, and the dawn was breaking, Roxton was silently waiting to wake up his beautiful companion. He had the fire stoked and had her coffee already on the boil. He enjoyed doing these small tasks in order to keep the peace. He poked the fire while remising of their last time exploring and he poured a cup of the black brew. While he gingerly sat it down beside Marguerite, the hunter uncovered her hand from its place on her blanket. He then placed the cup inside its ample grip. Her eyes flickered knowingly and she sat up to take the first swig of her addiction.

Later on that same day, Marguerite was scouting the way through a rather dense spot of brush, while Roxton took the protective rear. He relinquished control of the directions, in order to fully acquire the safety of his charge. They were headed up the steep slope of a rocky cliff in an attempt to shorten their trip back to the tree house. His eyes, although glued to the circumstance at hand, had an alternate vision that blurred into his consciousness. She had sensed him watching her and hadn't bothered to hide herself while changing into fresh clothes that morning. Her long mane flowed freely which only seemed to further amplify his feelings toward her. When she had caught him, she gracefully swayed over to him. He was entranced by her beauty as she leaned against him, shirt half buttoned and whispered something about exploring. She laughed while resuming the trail, a tad out of breath herself.

A sound on the path ahead snapped him back to the present, as he crouched low to the ground. Marguerite had heard it too, and as he turned he saw that she was now behind him, pistol at the ready. His rifle pushed through the brush, and her hand lay flat against his side. Both were accustomed to traveling like so, it was second nature. They pushed back the brush to find an empty clearing on the other side. They relaxed and pressed on through an orchard of some kind.

From behind them a large band of warriors with war paint of blue and gold, followed them, leaving no trace and making no sound. Their gear was mainly knives and clubs, with fitted metal grips and strong chains. They wore leather of a deep colour cut into shorts that were designed specially for each warrior, a fitting tribute from the tribe's seamstresses. They wore no upper garmets but each chest was painted in black which shown from their pale western skin. They were of European descent but had yet to evolve past brutality. Their leader, with paint of blue, gold and violet, used hand gestures to belay his orders. He was a tall man, with a slight body and powerful arms. His face bore a large welt and a scar that outlined his cheek and missing left eyebrow. His outward demeanor spoke cruelty and independence but his eyes spoke wisdom and maturity. He stocked his prey, leading them into a trap of despair and ultimate suffering.

Roxton sensed rather than heard, movement behind him, but before he could react, a meaty hand clubbed him.

He awoke to the smell of jasmine and to the overwhelming feeling of suffocation. His voice eagerly cracked out a single word "Marguerite?"

"yes John, now could you get off me?"

Marguerite lay under the hunter in a small cage with bleak surroundings. He instantly shifted his weight to allow her some air while taking stock of their surroundings.

Ok?

Yes.

Cage?

Yes.

How long?

'Bout three hours.

Hurt?

No. Hurt?

No.

Marguerite could tell from his eyes that he was lying, but kept on with their usual checklist to take stock of their happenings.

Packs?

No.

How many?

30. Give or take.

How'd we get here?

Well in usual fashion, I was carried, while they dragged you. Liar.

Her tone was laced with distain but her last comment was edged with concern and sympathy.

How far?

30 miles.

Due back?

2 days.

Weapons?

No luck.

With this the tally was over and she edged her hands from their respective spot to inspect the injuries. Her warm hands delicately prodded his wounded head. In truth, he had a small headache and a gash on his lower left leg but nothing that needed immediate attention. However, he reveled in her touches, so he resigned to being the patient. She placed him on his side, and turned so they faced each other. She then slid her hands around him as she placed her head reassuringly at his chest. His arms circled her as they waited for their captors to appear.

They were suspended in mid-air, a good 1000 meters from the forest floor, in a metal cage, rusted with use and misuse. A hefty lock of dubious origin was bolted to the door and they swung from a network of forest vines.

They awoke to silence. They were alone and had been for some time. In this new daylight, they were allowed to see their surroundings more clearly. Etched into their cage were mysterious markings, and colouring the metal were a multitude of dark red stains.

"Marguerite? Roxton uttered, no longer wanting to withstand his curiousity, "What does this say?

She turned slightly, shifting their cage minutely, and arched her back to better see the scribbles.

"It's a native tongue, similar to the Zanga, but not quite." Her voice becoming deep and illustrious as she read out another's thoughts. "I will die here, and all who read this will die here. 'They come from the ground with weapons, twice daily. Arrows sharp as night pierce through flesh. I am hit and I will die.' Well isn't that a lovely thought, seems they're using us for target practice." Her tone keeping the situation light while unconsciously Roxton was shifting himself to cover the linguist from a ground assault. His hands braced her head, and she allowed him his protective streak.

"I for one don't intent to die here." The hunter spoke aloud. "Come now, lets see if we can break free, hmm?"

Their combined body weight shifting allowed for the cage to drift right then left, causing a severe strain on the vines, but none on the captives themselves. When nearing a tree, Roxton's hand shot out to grab a hold, but to his surprise the nearest trees were covered in a multitude of garish spikes. The one closest has pierced his flesh in a rather unfriendly manner. If she hadn't have seen it, his instinct would have been to deny the episode fully. When they had stopped the momentum, she methodically reached down and ripped a measure of her shirt to facilitate a bandage. She uncorked her canteen which hung on her belt, and effectively cleaned the offending mark. She heard him wince, but never complain as she bandaged him accordingly. Marguerite was known to gripe and complain, but never when sick or injured, for it added to the strain of her hunter. The same was true for Roxton, never would he allow her to carry his pain and if it was his way, her own either.

How is it?

Fine.

Really?

Fine.

Liar.

Fine.' He uttered with a grunt at his persistent nurse.

Thirsty?

No.

With this the latest lie, she shoved her canteen at him and forced him to drink. He drank only what he knew they could spare and insisted she drink her share and his.

We've no food.

Yes, I am well aware of that. Aren't you the hunter?

Her eyes dared him to follow her distracting ruse from their current bleak surroundings.

But his eyes had darted to the forest ceiling as a branch had been split by an arrow.

They then saw the army of hunters beneath them, preparing for the battle.

As the arrows began to shower the forest canopy he covered her body fully pinning her away from their enemies.

She knew better than to resist, instead she unbuckled her canteen and held it beneath his head. Her resourcefulness not her body was all he would allow for his protection.

When the assault was over, and all the arrows spent, the army retreated to the dark outskirts of their camp and readied for the upcoming day and future attacks.

Hit?

No.

Okay?

Yes. Hit? Okay?

No. Was that the canteen?

Yes.

Broken?

No. Hurt?

No.

Really?

No.' The retort was again punctuated with a mild grunt.

Liar.

Her hands had already flown to where she sensed he was slightly bruised from the hilt of an arrow. Luckily he had shifted in time, and it had missed his lower ribcage.

We can't go through that again.

Well I certainly don't intend to. How?' The heiress' inquiry was said muted against his chest as he swiftly lifted his frame, and hers, to inspect the other side of their cage, only to lower them once again.

Drink.' He said matter-of-factly and he watched as she reluctantly sipped from their diminishing supply of water. When he was satisfied he took the canteen from her and was moving to replace it at her hip when she stared him down.

Drink.

No.

Drink.

No, I'm not all that thirsty.

Drink. The heiress subsequently followed that with a pertinent grunt of her own.

No.

With this said he corked the bottle and fashioned it at her side. Satisfied with the end of this argument, Roxton began to take stock of their surroundings. His eyes darted to the left tree, the right tree and then he resigned to staring into the misty green eyes of his companion. They usually held mystery or intrigue, but tonight under such dire circumstances, they held the formings of a plan.

John,' She uttered his given name, which betrayed the meaning of the conversation to both of them. She held his sorrow filled gaze as long as she dared. Then she pinned him to the bottom of the cage and grabbing the canteen from her waist she forced him to drink.

Drink.

No.

You will drink.

She struck him as hard as she dared, a meager slap from a small hand, but he knew she was serious about his survival.

I do not drink unless you do.

Marguerite.'

Her name was uttered under such duress that her eyes began to tear.

Roxton'

She held her stance with utter determination and she was finally rewarded when he reluctantly drank from their supply.

Now, What shall be do about this?' She barely choked out a half-laugh while pointing her finger dramatically at the metal cage. She would do anything to relieve the tension.

He gave a physical reply as he braced her sides and pulled her down beside him.

Do you intend to kick open this sardine can?

Do you have a better idea, Marguerite?

Actually, no. Let's give it a go shall we?

The explorers, flat on their backs suspended what seemed like a mile from the jungle floor gripped the bars of the cage and each other while preparing for the exertion.

They were both weary with hunger, and their strength was deteriorating, but they were determined to survive. The first hefty kick was simultaneous and it sent the small craft flailing about threatening to skewer them with the dangerous points. They swung gracefully as they readied the next kick. While kicking Roxton aimed his powerful boot at the hinges of the frame and Marguerite at the soft spot in the middle caked with wear, and they slowly began to distress the structure. Within ten minutes, the cage was barely harmed and the explorers were exhausted from the effort.

Done?

Done.

Okay?

Yes.

Hurt?

No. Okay? Hurt?

No.

Liar.

She suspected his bruise had left him with a slight handicap on his left side and he had concentrated his kicks on mainly one leg, leaving all injury to build up in one place.

Drink.

We've already gone through this.

Yes, and I won.

Drink?

Drink.

So together they drank from the canteen, exhausted from their experiences, and yet aware of the crucial need for the other's existence.

Marguerite lay beside her hunter a hand on her side, the other on his. His strong frame, an arm for a pillow, body heat for a blanket, with no need for words he supported her. His lips were pressed against her forehand and when he felt her breath rhythmically in sleep upon his chest, he too took salvation in slumber.

They woke to fearful sounds below. A fire was cracking, hunters voices rang into the surrounding woods.

I'm guessing they're not inviting us down for coffee.

Apparently not.

Marguerite had awoke on top of her hunter. His instincts had taken over, ensuring his charge was well away from any impromptu firing from below. It seemed that even in sleep Roxton was protective. While one hand protected her head, the other drifted down to her chest, securely fashioning her backside to him. Her heartbeat assured him of her presence.

Really, Roxton, this is ridiculous.' She quietly uttered as a wide grin flashed across his face.

Terribly sorry, Marguerite. Don't know what came over me.' Roxton replied while making no movements to alleviate the situation.

Kindly remove your hand, Lord Roxton.' Roxton lingered there, for an impolite moment before reluctantly shifting his hand to her stomach.

She gracefully turned her body so that they faced each other, and his hand now encompassed the small of her back.

His eyes were a mix of instinct and joy at their situation and apparent closeness. In reality, the cage allowed far more room for them to be comfortable, but they needed the comfort that came with such proximity.

How many?

Same number, 'Bout 30.

Sleep okay?

Oh just dandy, like a maid in summertime.

Translate.

And with that she began to relate what her mind was already translating. Little tidbits of unseen origin seem to drift upon her ears.

There's a large prize for whomever hits us. Well me in particular.

You?

Seems that protective nature makes me the harder target

Damnit. Marguerite you know I'd never…

I know.

And with that the gruesome topic was over. When the arrows began showering them once again, the hunter had his bundle in his arms, and Marguerite, her canteen at his head.

Amidst the downpour of metal, Marguerite, using instincts she acquired out of nowhere, moved the canteen lower down his head and braced it at his neck. She nuzzled her appreciation over his protection, into his chest and heard his grunted reply.

Knowing it was over, he relinquished his hold on her and allowed her a bit more breathing room.

Hurt?

No.

Okay?

Yes. Hurt? Okay?

No.

Liar.

Drink.

No. Drink.

No.

They both grunted opposites. She removed the canteen from behind his head only to have found it punctured with an impressive array of arrows.

Damnit. They could have nicked your hand.

My hand! They could have made you dinner.

Not likely, you're a tad more appealing.

Comforting.

Indeed.

She held out the sturdy container as he grabbed the arrow from the dense metal. Luckily, it had not punctured the inner workings of the flask. They reluctantly drank their reserves together. With the water finished, and the attack over, they both strained to remain conscious.

Marguerite the locksmith?' the Hunter inquired when he saw marguerite fingering the disfigured metal.

One does what one needs to do, Lord Roxton.'

She grabbed the bars atop her and while hoisting her own weight, in a bout of unprotected freedom, attempted to manipulate the lock.

Need help?

Just fine on my own, Thanks'

Resuming their banter is what kept their spirits from a crushing low.

Stubborn

Hardly

Without further words, Roxton held up her weight with his strong arms, and allowed her to concentrate fully on the task at hand.

Her arm snaked out of the cage, and held the arrow so the small point infiltrated through the locking mechanism. She then glanced down at her hand.

Roxton?

Yes.

What is this?

She had turned, arrow in hand and pointed to her right middle finger.

Why that's an arrow Marguerite. That those kind fellows had supplied us with

No, this'

She pointed the arrow to her finger that sported the famed Roxton Ring.

Her green eyes shown bright and she held her hand out for inspection.

We are not going to die.'

She punctuated her words with a light tap of the arrow to his chest.

You are going to get us out of this. Or rather this time, I am.

He just stared at the ravishing beauty who now wore his ring.

Do you not accept? His reply came so earnestly and honestly that she dare not to hold his gaze.

This is hardly the time or the place…' Her words slowly drifting and her eyes saw that her hand was now complete.

Do you not accept?

What does it mean?

He looked at her. His eyes pierced through her veils of secrecy and looked on her soul.

They were soul mates, forever destined beside each other.

This is your history, John. I can't take that from you.

I've always been good at sharing.

It does fit rather well.

Her eyes sparkled on this modest ring, as if she was looking at her biggest treasure, and in her heart, she was.

She rested atop his chest for a moment more, His lips parted as he kissed her forehead in a gesture that reassured all. Simultaneously she turned and he lifted her to work further on the lock.

Within the hour they were free, and within two they were safely nestled in a far tree, to await the morning light. The battle was astoundingly short as the warriors looked up astounded. Marguerite translated the short bursts of shock to her comrade.

One of them is taking credit for killing you

Wouldn't I leave a body?

Oh, He's chalking that up to the Gods

Good to know.

A short time later, after the band had left to pursue another delicacy, Roxton landed abruptly on the ground. He held his hand out to accommodate his charge. She refused and landed on her backside, a short distance from him.

Stubborn

Hardly

When they had almost reached the tree house, Marguerite stopped wordlessly and fumbled with her hand.

Do you not accept?

Oh Damnit, of course I do.

Then what are you doing?

It's a very heavy ring.

Yes.

And its made for a man.

Yes.

Am I a Man?

He replied by hastily running his eyes down her form and uttering a "No"

Its settled then.

What is?

She lightly pulled her locket from her neck and unfastened it. She then took his ring from her delicate hand and looped it through her chain. She refastened it and laid it flat against her neck.

Wouldn't want to loose it

Marguerite sighed contently as she patted her neckline. There next to her heart was the Roxton signet.

Well then. Is there a prize for relinquishing such a valued relic?

The hunter sauntered up to her and lowered his head.

Before she could reply he pressed his lips against hers and his hands explored her body. Her hands responded in kind, and she pressed her body slightly against him.

Ahem.

They instantly froze, entangled as they were, a small groan emerged between them. They turned to see Challenger, Malone, and Veronica smirking while holding bags of the next Summerlee herb.

They walked home together, speaking nothing of their adventure, both content in this unspoken bond.


End file.
